Guardian Angel
by GrotesqueMasquerade
Summary: Ghost, Angels, and Spirits are nothing but a childhood phobia, a sick twisted distortion of the media, these things—these feelings are clearly caused by the fact that Mello was dead. He was dead and was never, ever coming back.
1. Chapter 1

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I never believed in angels, ghosts, spirits or anything of the such; the whole concept of someone being able to come back from the dead, and become an angel, a spirit, a ghost? It was ridiculous, preposterous, and mind-boggling.

So why was I feeling as if someone was watching me? Protecting me, laughing, crying, smiling, and breathing with me? If I was sad I would be comforted, if I was angry I would be calmed, this—this feeling, is nothing more than an illusion.

Ghost, Angels, and Spirits are nothing but a childhood phobia, a sick twisted distortion of the media, these things—these feelings are clearly caused by the fact that Mello was dead. He was dead and was never, ever coming back. And even if was, he wouldn't be an angel with a white halo, or something as punk ass as a spirit, or something as gay as a ghost, if Mello really came back he would want to make himself known. He would do something dumb, crazy, remarkable.

In all honesty, I miss Mello, and I'm trying to make some crazy, fucked up illusion that he's here—haunting me, watching me. That's it. Right?

"So, Matt, you've been hearing things?" Near looked up at me, white hair covering his eyes, a tiny little smirk danced on his lips, as if he wanted to say; 'You are one crazy boy, Mail.' As if I didn't know that already.

"Not necessarily hearing things, I've been—feeling things?" The answer to his question came out as more of a question than anything else. I tried my best to redeem myself with an explanation. "It'll be cold and suddenly I'll feel warm, I'll be lonely then I'll feel someone is with me."

I honestly didn't know why I was talking to Near of all people, he couldn't help me, he probably didn't even know what I was going through. But… he was the only one still alive who knew what Mello had been to me. He saw us together in Mello's last days. Surely he recognized love when he saw it, regardless of whether he could _feel _it or not.

Then again, Near is one sick fucker, he may look 'innocent and cute' as some deranged hooker called him, but deep down inside he is a mind fuck, a creepy, albino mind fuck.

Oh goodness, I'm sounding more and more like Mello everyday.

I miss him. We knew it was an almost guaranteed suicide mission when we planned it—but I always thought that if something happened, we'd die together. Why hadn't I gone with him?

I'm sorry Mello, but you were wrong about one thing. There is no God. If there were we'd be together right now. Even you can't argue that.

"Feeling things?" Near leaned into me, moving strands of white hair from his face. "Physically?"

I threw him a scathing look, getting up from the small dining room table, and waking over to the refrigerator, "Yes Near, physically, as in poke, poke. Do you have any beer?"

He sighed, shaking his head at me, "Matt knows I am not old enough too drink."

I scoffed, rolling my eyes at him, flicking my hand as a 'goodbye' gesture, before stomping out the door.

I looked back at the door, shaking my head in disgust at Near's lack of help for me, lack of knowledge, lack of anything for this situation. It was a mistake talking to Near, but that just shows how desperate I am. Maybe I should see a professional, a physiatrist, or something? No. I was not crazy just simply—lonely? Yes, that's it. I'm lonely.

Yes, I shall make some new friends. I will no longer be lonely, nor will this feeling, this eeriness, haunt me. I will be fine.

"I will be fine." Even to me, my voice sounded dead. Empty.

As I continued walking down the streets, towards my flat, I could've sworn I heard somebody whisper 'You have me'.

But then again, it could have been all in my head, right?

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	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter two! Enjoy :]**

My apartment is a mess. And I hate being here. There are too many memories.

Like the settee—Mello and I fucked there one, two, three times in one night when the power went out and I was stuck game-less. And the windowsill, where I smoked countless cigarettes and Mello checked out my ass from the armchair. Let's not forget the innumerable chocolate wrappings scattered around my flat.

This place taunts me, screaming _MELLO _everywhere I turn. I can't stay here, I can't live with constant reminder of him, I want to forget, I want to die, I want to— my train of thought ends abruptly as I feel the very distinct sting of teeth against my ear.

I whirl around, but no one's there. I'm shaking now, because it felt so much like the way Mello used to come up to me from behind and wrap his wiry arms around me, biting whatever skin was showing at the moment. After a haircut, I would have red marks all along my neck.

"_Everyone will know that you belong to me," _he'd say, and give me that wicked smile I loved. "_As if anyone would doubt it in the first place."_ I'd retort, and in turn he'd kiss me incoherent.

Tears were stinging my eyes before I got a hold of myself. No, no, no, stop it, Matt. Going crazy is one thing, but becoming a pathetic, quivering, lovesick person—the kind of person Mello despised, incidentally—is completely out of the question.

I snapped my goggles over my eyes with more force than necessary, and walked out the door. I'd never pull it together if I stayed there.

One thing I'm thankful for is that the city of L.A. never slows down. Be it massive serial killer or the death of the love of my life, this city will always, always, thrive with energy.

I smoke the last cigarette of the pack and toss it to the ground thoughtlessly, striding into the nearest bar. I order the strongest drink they have and turn to the person sitting next to me.

"Any chance you've got a fag?" I ask wearily, forgetting the many, many gay jokes I've heard after using that word. The girl shakes her head, "I don't smoke. And you shouldn't either."

"Right." I turn away but she pulls on my arm, "Wait—South England?"

"Sorry?"

"Your accent. My friend sounds just like you, and she's from Winchester, you from around there?" The girl is quite pretty, really, with long blonde hair and blue eyes. Blue eyes like—no, no, no. I drain my glass in one long swig.

"One more," I say to the bartender, and ignore the girl's question. It's going to be harder than I thought to make friends.

I'm well into my second drink when she pokes me. I turn, about to tell her to bugger off, but it's an old classmate of mine. Linda. She's holding a cigarette out to me, a smile on her sweet face. "My friend mentioned you wanted one."

"Thanks Lin I… shit, Lin, it's you." I'm actually really pleased to see her. Maybe she can help me make sense of this mess.

"Matt, you look like shit." She strokes my cheek, and I find myself leaning into her touch, wanting more than anything to be close to someone to make up for this terrible loneliness I felt. If she knew about Mello—and she had to have—she didn't say anything, and for that I was extremely grateful.

"There's this art show—starring my work, but afterwards, there's a… a gathering, if you will, of Wammy's kids."

"No, that's the last thing I need. A roomful of-of reminders, and people feeling sorry for me."

"Matt, please, look at it from my point of view. You disappear off the face of the Earth one day, we see you on the news getting shot, next we hear, Mello's dead and Kira's gone. And now… you turn up looking worse than you did when you tried killing yourself when Mello left at Wammy's."

I flinch every time she says his name, and her face crumples, "So it was true. You guys were together before he died, and now… now you're alone. Oh, Matt!" she throws her arms around me, and I figure, I might as well humor her into thinking she's helping me.

Her speech is a nice one, but I hear only one thing—

'_Now you're alone.'_

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